


Tales of the Riddermark

by Lady_Branwyn



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming of Age, Cross-cultural, Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Friendship, Gen, Horses, Light Angst, Post-War of the Ring, Pre-War of the Ring, Rohan, Siblings, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-12 18:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19234417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Branwyn/pseuds/Lady_Branwyn
Summary: Short fics from the fields of Rohan.





	1. The Road Not Taken (Boromir, Original Character)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the War of the Ring  
> Written as a companion piece to "Stopping by Woods" and in response to HASA's "Your Favorite Poem" challenge

The birch trees shone like a forest of sun-scoured bones. The summer had been very dry, and already yellow leaves drifted from the branches. Two riders trotted on the western road, all mark of their passing swiftly covered by leaves. 

Though his saddle and boots were finely crafted, the first man was clothed in plain wool and bore no sign of rank. Hair as yellow as corn fell in long plaits down his back. The second man was very tall, yet he rode with surprising ease and grace. He wore his black hair loose, after the fashion of Gondor, and his dark clothing was elegant and richly embroidered. An ivory horn with silver fittings hung by his right side. 

They halted at a cairn of white stones. To the north of the road, the trees were parted in a straight line, as if their branches were held back by some unseen magic. The dark-haired man swung down from the saddle and led his horse between the trees. With the heel of his boot, he scraped aside the rotting leaves until he reached the paving stones buried under the loam. 

The fair-haired rider murmured a few words to his horse then slid lightly to the ground. “From here I can guide you no farther, Lord Boromir. None of my people has taken this path in years, and rarely do travelers journey from the North. Yet may it lead you at last to the land that you seek.” He placed his right hand on his breast and bowed. 

“Then I must find my own way, but I thank you for your help, Ragnvald, son of Aelric,” the other man said as he bowed in return, then he swiftly straightened up and stared into the trees. A wild and rising horn call echoed from the north. 

“’Tis naught but an _ilfete,_ my lord.” 

“Ill fate? That seems an unlucky name.” 

Ragnvald thought for a moment. "A swan, my lord, in the Common Speech. During the spring and fall, great flocks alight on the marshes of the Westfold, yet they do not tarry here. I deem that their home is far to the North.” The call came again, remote but clear. “Strange that one lingers so late in the summer.” 

Still gazing into the distance, the man of Gondor nodded slowly. Then he shook himself and made a wry smile. “Let me answer its summons in kind.” He raised the horn and played the swan’s call--a deep, low note followed by a higher pitch. The two men laughed when from the woods came a faint reply. 

The stirrup leathers creaked as the dark-haired man swung himself to the horse’s back. “Farewell.” 

Ragnvald’s horse whinnied, shifting her weight uneasily; he gently stroked her neck. “May you ride to good fortune, my lord.” 

Without a backward look, Lord Boromir set out on the road not taken. Ragnvald stared through the drifting veil of yellow leaves, until both path and rider were lost among the trees. 

************************************* 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
And sorry I could not travel both  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could  
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair,  
And having perhaps the better claim,  
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;  
Though as for that the passing there  
Had worn them really about the same, 

And both that morning equally lay  
In leaves no step had trodden black.  
Oh, I kept the first for another day!  
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,  
I doubted if I should ever come back. 

I shall be telling this with a sigh  
Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—  
I took the one less traveled by,  
And that has made all the difference. 

\--Robert Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ilfete_ or _ylfete_ is one of the Old English words for “swan.”  
> While some swans are mute, the whooper swan (called the trumpeter swan in North America) has a loud, ringing call.


	2. Stopping by Woods (Faramir, Original Character)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-War of the Ring  
> Written as a companion piece to "The Road Not Taken" and in response to HASA's "Your Favorite Poem" challenge

Night fell early at the turning of the year, and the birch trees gleamed like bleached bones in the twilight. Snow swept across the western highway, stirring the yellow leaves that lay heaped around the milestone. To the north of the road, a narrow path divided the trees. 

Two riders trotted out of the storm and reined in their mounts at the crossroad. With a faint jangle of harness, the horses whickered and tossed their heads, eager to find the warm shelter of a farmstead. 

The first rider drew back a hood of plain wool. He wore his fair hair in a warrior’s plaits, and his face was young but stern. “There lies the old road to Tharbad, lord. Even in these days of peace, few riders take that path. Dwarven folk, for the most, and messengers of Elessar King.” 

The second man nodded. “Though the road has become less perilous, it is still a long and hard journey.” His hood was cast back, and white hair brushed his shoulders, shorn after the fashion of Gondor. With surprising grace for one so old, he swung from the saddle, and handing the reins to the other rider, he knelt beside the milestone. The front of the marble tablet was deeply carved with runes, while elvish letters were chiseled on the back. Pulling off a heavy gauntlet, he traced his fingers along the graven lines, brushing away the dust of snow. “One hundred leagues to Tharbad, two hundred and thirty to Imladris,” he murmured. “And whither thence, Boromir?” 

The only sound was the sweep of snow among the bare branches. 

"One day I will follow, my brother, but for now that journey must wait.” The white-haired man straightened and rose to his feet, shaking the downy flakes from his cloak. He stared into the woods as he drew on his gauntlets. “When did they set up the milestone? It was not here when last I came this way.” 

“Four or five winters past, lord. Old Ragnvald could say for certain. He owns these woods and the fields hereabout, though his house is in the next village. On this darkest night, he and his folk will be drinking waes hael by the fire.” The fair-haired rider leaned forward to stroke his horse’s neck. 

“Then let us join their Yule and leave these woods in the keeping of the snow.” The man of Gondor put boot in stirrup and swung lightly into the saddle. Their breath like smoke in the cold, the horses set out at a willing pace. He started to sing, in the language of the Mark. “Swift is the mare, bright is the sword.” His voice was low yet clear. 

“Now drink we waes hael to king and to lord,” the younger man joined him. 

_Short is the day, dark is the night,_  
_Now drink to the dead so glory shines bright._

Feathers of snow soon brushed away their tracks, so that none would know they had ever passed that way. 

******************************** 

Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village, though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow. 

My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake  
To ask if there is some mistake.  
The only other sound's the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake.  
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep. 

\--Robert Frost


	3. Betrayed (Eowyn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-War of the Ring

"But, Theodred, I would ride with you!" 

"No, cousin, it is a long, hard journey to Eastwatch, and the sky looks like rain." With a glance toward their lord, he turned his horse and left. Just last summer, he would have swung her onto the saddle before him. 

In the cold months, old Aelfwyn had ripped out the seams of her gowns, widening the sides under the arms. Her aged nurse had smiled and cackled, "Soon, my lady, soon." Yet Eowyn saw no cause for gladness. Stabled like a broodmare, she watched her cousin leave, cursing her own body's betrayal.


	4. Outlander (Eowyn, Eomer, Boromir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-War of the Ring

"Hold your weeping. I cannot bear to see it," her brother begged as if he were in mortal torment. 

Eowyn nodded, sniffling and trying to stop the shaking of her shoulders. 

"No one will force you to pledge yourself to this outlander. The laws of our people forbid such a thing." Her brother scowled then struck his palm with his fist. "I will speak with Theoden King at once." He swung about on his heel and nearly fell in a heap of manure as he tripped on his sword. With a muttered curse, he stamped out of the stable and into the cold rain. 

Heedless of her best gown, Eowyn crawled into the hay loft. There she would be safely hidden while she waited for her brother to return. She hated this gown, hated the way it bared her shoulders and stretched across the new curves of her breasts. She was nothing more than a filly being raised to be a brood mare. 

At the sound of men's voices, she peered down the ladder. She heard Freawulf, the stablemaster, giving orders to the grooms. Then she heard a low voice speaking Westron in a strange, lilting manner. She leaned down to spy a glimpse of the outlander, for she knew that was who it must be. 

His black hair hung in wet strands, and water streamed from his cloak. Even from her perch in the hayloft, she could see that his hands were white from the cold and his broad shoulders were stooped with weariness. Yet he unsaddled the horse himself and dried its coat with clean sackcloth, refusing the help of the grooms. 

Scratching the horse on the whithers, the outlander told old Freawulf, "He is cold and overtired. He needs to eat--" And here he said a few words in Sindarin. "It is food for sick horses. I do not know what its name is in the Common Speech." 

Moving quicker than thought, Eowyn shimmied down the ladder and landed with a thud. Then she pulled down the rumpled skirt of her gown as the outlander stared and the stablemaster coughed into his hand. She looked up at her betrothed as she spoke. "'Bran mash.' It is called 'bran mash' in the Common Speech. Freawulf, be so good as to cook some for Lord Boromir's horse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly AU since Tolkien doesn't say whether a match was planned between Boromir and Eowyn, though a marriage between them would not have been unlikely if Boromir had lived.


	5. Envy (Grima)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-War of the Ring  
> Response to the "green" challenge at the LiveJournal Tolkien_Weekly community

"You have a steady hand; with practice, you will make a fair archer." Old Aelfric drew the arrows from the target--close but not in the center. 

Grima took these words to heart. Swordplay had earned him nothing but bruises; here he would make his mark. Round after round he shot, as long as there was light. His aching back grew strong; tattered blisters sloughed into calluses. 

Yet still the arrows flew wide--close but not in the center. Slowly, frustration turned to envy, for others hit the mark with ease. Setting aside his bow, Grima cursed his lesser gift.


	6. Oathtaking (Grima, Theoden)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-War of the Ring

The son of a common man, he bore a sword of like lineage. Blushing, he offered the battered hilt, unadorned with gold. “Receive my service, if you will, lord!”

“Gladly will I take it.” The gnarled hands rested lightly on Grima’s dark hair. _Dark as a Dunlending,_ folk murmured when they thought he could not hear. “Rise now, Grima son of Galmod.”

Still blushing, he rose and joined his eored. He forced himself to laugh as they thumped him on the back. _A changeling,_ folk whispered. _A bastard_ , said some. What place was there for him in this golden band?


	7. Stirrup Cup (Eowyn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-War of the Ring  
> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Cup" challenge

Grima was not the only Rider to watch her eagerly when she offered them the stirrup-cup. Bright with amber and silk, she would make a proud ornament for her husband’s hall, and her dower horses would number in the hundreds. It would be a great honor to join with a daughter of Eorl, and her soft woman’s flesh would bear her new husband’s weight and then bear him fine sons. She held much that these Riders desired. 

At first, she was pleased by their longing; yet later, she thought it an empty thing, like a stirrup-cup that had been overturned.


	8. Ride Light (Original Characters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the War of the Ring  
> Written for the "Fear" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

"Ride light. Carry food and fodder to last until Mundberg; we need look no further.” Their captain glanced around the encampment. “Leave the tents; take only your bedrolls. Let us sleep behind the City walls, if that is our fate.” 

The men sorted their gear as they packed. They had brought small comforts from their farmsteads-- 

_Cooking pots, a sack of walnuts,_  
_Feather pillows, oil lamps,_  
_Folding stools, a painted chessboard._

As they set these goods aside, they bid their homes a last farewell. Then they turned the horses to the south. No longer encumbered, they rode the more swiftly.


	9. The Walking Wounded (Original Characters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the War of the Ring  
> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "On Foot" Challenge

Slowly, Ragnvald led the way, skirting the heaps of the slain. He had bound up his companion’s wounds, but they needed to find the healers. The oliphaunt’s tusks had opened a gash along his shoulder and breast.

As they edged past the creature’s mangled hulk, the other trembled and sweated.

“Steady now,” Ragnvald said. “It is dead and can do no more harm. See, we are nearly past it.”

His companion shuddered and blew out his breath in an uneasy sigh. 

“Would that this once I could bear you on my back,” Ragnvald murmured as he stroked the horse’s muzzle.


	10. Blackest Fate (Original Characters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-War of the Ring or during the War of the Ring  
> Written for the “Doom” challenge at Tolkien_weekly

During the searing day, they carried their burdens in silence, hurrying onward under the whip. But later, the prisoners talked softly in the darkness, for none of these black-haired men knew their tongue. 

They spoke of simple things--of galloping through the grass as it bowed before the wind, of resting where clear water washed the flat stones. Of the first glimpse of home above a distant ridge. 

Reaching through the bars, each gently searched for the other’s face, until the black muzzles brushed together. Dead to their Riders and kindred, at least they two could share this evil doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...Some years ago the Lord of the Black Land wished to purchase horses of us at great price, but we refused him. for he puts beasts to evil use. Then he sent plundering Orcs, and they carry off what they can, choosing always the black horses: few of these are now left. For that reason our feud with the Orcs is bitter."  
> \--Eomer, _The Two Towers_


	11. The Horses of Eorl (Radagast, Eomer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-War of the Ring  
> Written for the “North” challenge at Tolkien_weekly

“After years of torment and slavery, they can scarcely bear to be touched by the healers.” The young king of Rohan bowed his head. 

Radagast nodded wisely; then he sat cross-legged on the ground. The horses listened quietly as he told them tales of their sires, for he had lived in Rhovanion when Eorl rode from the North. At night he slept close by, wrapped in his tattered brown cloak. 

After a week, a stallion sidled over and began to nuzzle his beard. 

“You are great hearted,” Radagast murmured, stroking the hollow flanks, “As brave as the horses of Eorl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to just_ann_now for the idea of Radagast as horsey therapist.


	12. A Near Thing (Grimbold, Theodred)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the War of the Ring  
> Alternate universe, written in honor of the anniversary of the First Battle of the Fords of Isen.

“Hold him up while I get the buckles.” Grimbold’s fingers slipped as he worked at the bloody straps. Finally, the mail shirt slid to the grass with the whisper of a thousand iron rings.

 _Little good it did him,_ the old Rider thought. _That spear pierced it like butter. Never was armor made that was proof against fate._

He loosened the torn arming shirt and drew it aside, and then he cried in wonder as he lifted a small book from Lord Theodred’s breast. Carried close against the lord’s heart, the book had turned aside fate when armor could not.


	13. Correspondence (Theoden)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the War of the Ring  
> Written for the "Paper" challenge at the Tolkien_weekly LiveJournal community

The hand of the writer had never faltered. Pointed and precise, the letters had marched across the milk-white parchment. No strikeouts or carets had slowed the writer’s sure advance.

For many years, he had gladly welcomed these scrolls, with their distant tidings and shrewd advice. Yet he had had no such counsel to offer in return. Scrawled by a calloused hand, his halting replies must have seemed pointless to the farseeing ruler of Gondor.

But, at last, here was a missive he could readily answer in kind. With a courteous nod to the messenger, Theoden King took the red arrow.


End file.
